


Amber

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [10]
Category: Original Work, The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:10:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an Arctic country ruled by descendants of the last Russian tsar, the companion of a young political bride falls for the country’s leader. Just a couple scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amber

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.   
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this original work/alternate universe, which was inspired by many different stories.

_Characters_ :

Grigori Dmitrovich, the Imperial Russian tsar in exile on an island in Siberia. Sean Bean

Yantara (Amber) Fyodorovna, his mistress, the Tsaritsa’s companion. Catherine Zeta-Jones

Zinaida Androvna, his political-match wife, who’s just a child; the young Tsaritsa. Kirsten Dunst

Maksim Pavelovich, the Tsar’s nephew and current heir. Christian Bale

 

“Gosh… those guys are scary-looking,” Josh breathed, peering into the meeting room through a break in the curtains.

“Really?” asked Sam. “How?”

“It’s just the uniforms, I guess,” Josh admitted. “I mean, they look like characters from a Tolstoy novel or something. And the women are all in fancy dresses with, I don’t know, bustles or something.”

“So when you say ‘scary,’ you mean psychologically, not physically,” Sam clarified.

“Well, I guess so,” Josh agreed dubiously. “Although the main guy in there is pretty big.”

Toby suddenly appeared around the corner. “Okay, I’m here now,” he announced impatiently. “Can we go in and deal with this latest bunch of nuts now?”

“Well, we had to wait for our official nut wrangler,” C.J. deadpanned.

Toby gave one of his almost smiles that could signal anything from irritation to amusement. “I choose not to respond to that,” he commented, as Josh reached for the handle of the French doors.

At the sound the delegation inside the room turned. The men were dressed in crisp navy blue-and-white military uniforms with gleaming buttons, while the women—and one little girl—wore fancy, old-fashioned dresses festooned with lace and ribbon. And with bustles poking out in back—the sort of dresses that made you want to use the word ‘festooned.’ They all stood stiffly as the White House staffers entered.

The youngest man, who was really no more than a teenager, stepped forward and nodded his dark head at them ceremonially. His expression was a bit sour and his accent noticeably Russian as he introduced his leader. “I have the honor of presenting His Most Eminent Majesty, Tsar Grigori Dmitrovich of the Eternal Russian Empire, lately of Our Beloved Refuge, Protector of the True Belief, Sustainer of the—“

There was a small noise from one of the delegates, and the young man broke off abruptly and stepped to the side, coldly ignoring the staffers. The man with the most medals on his chest, a 30ish reddish-blond, stepped forward and bowed slightly. When he looked back up expectantly, Josh started to hold out his hand but almost collided with the teenager.

“And _your_ name is, sir?” he asked Josh sharply.

Josh looked helplessly around the young man’s immobile figure. “Um, I’m Joshua Lyman, the Deputy Chief of Staff.”

The young man pivoted to face his leader. “Joshua Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff—“

“Thank you, Maksim,” the Tsar interrupted. “I believe Americans are more informal with their greetings. They”—he paused a bit awkwardly—“shake hands.”

“That’s okay,” Josh assured him. The young man, Maksim, did not look like he was in a hurry to be friendly anyway. “This is Toby Ziegler, the Communications Director”—the Tsar grimly reached out a hand and shook Toby’s—“Sam Seaborn, the Deputy Communications Director”—Sam managed to fumble the handshake by having to first switch his files to his other hand—“and C.J. Craig, the White House Press Secretary.” No awkwardness here—the Tsar immediately took C.J.’s hand and kissed it lightly.

“Milady,” he said with a smile. “Allow me to introduce the rest of my party. My nephew, Maksim Pavelovich”—a disdainful look was all the young man offered—“and my lovely Tsaritsa, Zinaida Androvna.” The little girl curtsied soberly. The rest of the delegates were not introduced, and they did not seem surprised by this.

Josh invited everyone to seats at the table and Donna bustled in right on cue with hot tea. As everyone settled in, Josh flipped his folder open and thought about his first question.

“That title you use,” he began delicately.

“Tsar?” Dmitrovich asked.

“Yeah… it’s not one we’ve heard for a while.”

“You are familiar with it, though, are you not?” Dmitrovich questioned. “As the ruler of the Great Russian Empire?”

“That’s also a term we don’t hear too much these days,” Josh admitted leadingly. When Dmitrovich merely blinked at him, Josh glanced at his notes. “It says here that you claim to be the descendant of Tsar Nicholas II of Russia—“

“Claim?” It was the teenager, Maksim, who spoke, and the word hung icily in the air.

Josh quickly backtracked, but only a bit. “I mean no disrespect, but from our perspective, it _does_ seem a little strange.”

“Why?” Dmitrovich asked, with genuine curiosity.

“Uh, well—“ Josh stammered.

Toby swooped in bluntly. “Because Tsar Nicholas II didn’t have any descendants. None that outlived him, anyway.”

For a moment Tsar Dmitrovich looked confused, then comprehension dawned. “Ah, they have not told you,” he surmised. “I was told you might find out somehow, but…”

“Find out what?” Josh asked.

“Tsar Nicholas II, my illustrious ancestor, _did_ have descendants who outlived him,” Dmitrovich replied. “Two, in fact.”

“Was one of them Anastasia?” Sam asked, a note of excitement creeping into his voice.

Dmitrovich looked at him curiously. “No,” he responded. “The Grand Duchess Anastasia, God grant peace to her soul”—the delegates all crossed themselves—“was murdered along with her parents and sisters in 1918 by the Bolsheviks.” He said the last word as though he were trying not to spit. “Are you sure they did not tell you this?”

“Well, we know about the Bolshevik Revolution,” Josh told him delicately. “But, uh, history has always said that _all_ of Nicholas’s children died with him.”

“There is no doubt?” Dmitrovich asked, with a hint of amusement. “I was under the impression there was some doubt, outside the official story.”

“Well, there were rumors that one of the daughters survived,” C.J. said, “but everyone who came forward was proven false.” She glanced at her fellow staffers. “Didn’t they find some new evidence, a few years ago, about the burial site—“

Sam and Josh shrugged. “Who would have told us this?” Toby asked suddenly.

“Your government is so… huge, parts of it don’t even speak to each other,” Maksim sneered. “We have made no secret of our heritage in all our discussions with your people. We have been _interrogated_ so many times—“

Dmitrovich made another little noise and his nephew went silent. The Tsar tried to smile. “You must excuse my nephew. He is very _young_.” He sent a warning glance to Maksim, who all but rolled his eyes once his uncle had turned away. “But, if you have not been told,” he continued, “it is no burden to repeat our story.” He looked at the little girl beside him, who appeared to be about 11 or 12. “Tsaritsa, perhaps you would like to explain?”

The girl nodded gravely and stood. All around her the visiting delegation hopped up, and the White House staffers hurried to follow suit, though they weren’t quite sure what was going on. Once everyone had stilled, the girl told them, “Please, be seated,” in a solemn tone, and everyone else but her sat back down. Looks pinged between the White House staffers as they retook their seats.

The girl focused her clear blue eyes on the staffers and began to recite formally, as though she’d memorized the speech for just this purpose. “Tsar Nicholas II and his wife Alexandra had five children: four daughters, the Grand Duchesses, and a son and heir, Alexei. Of course the Bolsheviks meant to murder them all, but two of the children escaped—Tatiana, the second daughter, and Alexei, the tsarevich. The Grand Duchess Tatiana and the Tsarevich escaped to the woods, where they were taken in by kindly Russian peasants in an isolated village.”

“How did they escape?” Toby asked with more than a hint of disbelief.

The girl glared down at him, but the expression was more humorous in effect than off-putting on her delicate features. “The Grand Duchess Tatiana and the Tsarevich switched places with two of their loyal servants, a maid and a kitchen boy, and slipped away in the night.” She paused, then continued sadly, “They had no way of knowing that before they could even escape the country, their family, and their brave servants, would be brutally murdered. Their plan had been to see the Tsarevich safely to his relatives in Western Europe and beg their aid for the family, but when they learned that their family was beyond all earthly aid—God grant peace to their souls”—more crossing—“the Grand Duchess decided the journey west was too perilous and instead, they went north. Our great sister kingdom, Zemelanika, gave them shelter, though they were unable to reveal their true identities to the world for fear of reprisal from the Bolshevik state. They married into the Zemelanikan royal family and continued the Romanov bloodline.”

Toby raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. “Before the end of their days they found Our Beloved Refuge, Nasha Lubit Ubezhishe, where the true rulers of Mother Russia await the return of their throne.” She spoke the last part with a proud flourish and as she curtsied, the delegates gave her soft applause. She sat down with a pleased look in her eye and one of the ladies patted her hand.

Dmitrovich murmured a few words in their native tongue—Russian, presumably—that made the girl so happy she _almost_ smiled. Then he faced the staffers again, to find them glancing dubiously at each other.

“So, you’re the direct descendent of Nicholas II?” Josh summarized.

“Through his son Alexei, the Tsarevich,” Dmitrovich agreed.

“Well… there’s these tests we can do,” he began carefully, “that can verify that statement—“

“Genetic tests?” Dmitrovich asked dismissively. “Those have already been done. The results support our… ‘claim.’”

Josh looked up in surprise. “Where were those tests done?”

“At labs in three different countries, with independent blood samples from myself, my nephew, and two family members from the line of the Grand Duchess Tatiana,” he told them patiently.

“ _Which_ three countries?” Toby pressed.

“Nicobar, Kaskia, and Vaalborg,” Dmitrovich answered casually.

The White House staffers shared a glance. “All countries in the Annalian League,” Toby commented with some distaste.

“Yes, they… requested that such tests be done when I petitioned to join them,” the Tsar said, clearly still somewhat insulted. He sighed. “I suppose I would have asked the same.” He met Josh’s eye. “And I suppose I cannot blame _you_ for wanting to perform your own tests.”

Josh was relieved to hear that, because he had a feeling Leo wasn’t going to accept the League’s say-so on _anything_.

“When did you join the League?” Sam questioned.

“About ten years ago.”

“And you knew about them through your association with Zemelanika,” Josh checked. Not one of their favorite League countries, or indeed a well-known one.

“As you say,” Dmitrovich agreed. “Zemelanika has always… shielded us from the outside world and handled many of our foreign affairs during our early years.”

**

Charlie slid another thick bundle of papers onto the desk before President Bartlett. “If you’ll just sign at—“

“All the flagged places, yes, I know, Charlie,” the President replied wearily. “What I really want to know is, what is the White House budget allotment for tape flags? And how many hours do you spend each day affixing them in exactly the right spot?”

Charlie began to reply, something dry but witty he hoped, when a movement outdoors caught his eye. When he took a second glance, the sight held him in place until he heard the President call his name. “Uh, sorry, sir,” he stammered quickly. “I was distracted by the women dancing in the rain in the background.”

That got the President’s attention, and he pulled off his reading glasses and spun around in his chair. Sure enough, there were about half a dozen women, plus a little girl, cavorting in the summer downpour in long off-white dresses, under the watchful eye of an equal number of solemn, soaked, uniformed guards.

“Charlie,” the President said after a moment, “if this is some kind of plot by a hostile government to steal state secrets, well, by G-d, it’s going to work.”

“Yes, sir,” his aide agreed appreciatively.

Just then their view was blocked by Donna, rushing down the walkway watching the women and talking frantically into her cell phone. When she realized she had ended up in front of the Oval Office, however, she froze with an expression approaching horror. President Bartlett gestured for her to come inside sternly.

“Donna,” he said firmly, “do you know who those women are?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered meekly.

“And who are they, exactly?”

“They’re part of the delegation from NLU,” Donna began. “I was supposed to be giving them a tour, and then they took their clothes off and started playing in the rain.”


End file.
